by Julie Paul
It worked. Although Millie’s arm was amputated five inches below the shoulder, if Teddy had not used his T-shirt, Millie would have bled to death on the way. For all those years Teddy had been in Boy Scouts, she said another prayer of thanks to Lord Baden-Powell.
After hauling all twenty music stands out from the back, Jessie tried a different tack.
“Won’t your arthritis get worse, Millie? Using one hand all the time?”
Before the accident, Millie had used a support for her right hand while she played on Sundays—rheumatoid arthritis had twisted her fingers so strongly that half of them had dislocated. Even though the left hand’s fingers were starting to drift and curl, they were still better off than the right.
Millie finished playing the last notes of the hymn. “Thanks for asking, Jessie. But the Lord has provided me with a blessing. It was my right hand that plagued me so badly. And now . . . ” Millie’s eyes teared up, and she tried to pull a Kleenex from her blouse with the absent hand before remembering her loss. “He works in mysterious ways.”
Surely even Jessie could appreciate the irony, Millie thought.
But Jessie pressed on. “And your left hand?”
“It’s learning to take the lead.” Millie chuckled. “I’ll probably play better than ever now, as long as my pedalling feet don’t fall asleep.”
Millie stood up to shift her cushions. A sudden wave of vertigo hit her, as if she’d been run into by a burst of strong wind. She grabbed onto Jessie’s arm with her only hand.
“You see?” said Jessie. “You’re not up for this at all.”
Millie shook her head, weakly. “If I don’t move around too much, I’m as good as new.”
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The first members to arrive were the Oxtobys, Mrs. in a plum suit and Mr. with a tartan tie. Mr. Oxtoby called his wife Milady, and she returned the favour with Milord. They sat in their paid-for pew, two rows back from the pulpit, with their grandchildren in descending order by Milady’s side. When the littlest ones saw Millie, they pointed her out.
“Look,” said a high little voice. “Mrs. MacDonald’s back again.”
Millie recognized the voice as belonging to one of the children who reached into her apron at the after-service luncheons to pull out stickers and lollipops.
“Good lord,” Mrs. Oxtoby said. “I thought she was dead.”
Millie smiled and nodded at the family and kept on playing her hymn. The usual members of the congregation trickled in and found their usual pews. Millie could hear a buzz spreading from one pew to the next, but she ignored it all and focused on the melody at hand (and foot).
She was used to this. The people of her community didn’t often share her points of view. They thought she was outlandish, the way she didn’t watch television or drink coffee or join in their gossip chains, although she was still on the receiving end of the odd Friendship Cake, adding the ingredients as instructed every day until the batter was bubbling, ready to be divided, and one half given away. Millie liked her simple life on the farm, and she liked worshipping God from the black and whites of her organ keyboard. Why was there anything wrong with that?
The choir filed in and found their seats, followed by Reverend Short. He came from the vestibule, carrying the Bible, smiling blandly but handsomely at the puddle of faces in front of him. The words THE LORD REIGNETH; LET THE EARTH REJOICE hovered over him on the blue ceiling as usual, painted on their golden scroll, but today they seemed to shimmer like sunlight on water. Once he tuned into the processional being played, he gave a wide-eyed glance at the organ. After the last strains of Millie’s hymn faded, Reverend Short looked to the organ again.
“Well, my goodness,” he said. “What do we have here?”
“Hello, Reverend,” Millie said. She could feel Jessie scowling at her from the first pew.
“What a surprise,” he said. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” Millie said. “It’s good to be here.”
He turned his focus back to the murmuring congregation. “Please turn to page 356 in your hymnals and join the choir in singing the opening hymn.”
The choir director looked at Millie and nodded.
Teary again, Millie nodded back, and with as much zeal as if she were embarking on a mission to save the world, she began playing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
The service carried on as usual, except for the attention Millie was getting. Reverend Short’s face held a look of surprise every time he glanced her way.
“Why is Millie’s arm gone?” Millie heard a child ask. Yet another asked if that was blood on her shirt, which caused Millie to sneak a peek over to that side of her body. Good Lord, it was blood. She ignored it—and the pain, which seemed to be spreading from her shoulder into her neck—and told herself she’d take an extra Advil once the service was through. She just kept on smiling on her organ bench, waiting for her cues.
Eventually, after a rather brief sermon, for which Millie was grateful, the service came to an end. During the closing announcements and prayers, alongside the usual pleas for more volunteers to pour tea at the brunches, Reverend Short thanked the Lord for sparing Millie’s life. Then, while the congregation filed out, she played “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” with her eyes closed for focus and pain management. When the hymn was over, she heard her name yet again from the pews.
“Hello, Mildred,” Mrs. Davidson called. She’d never been one for nicknames—no one else called her Mildred. “Can we have a word with you, dear?”
There was a group of women waiting at the back of the church. From what she could make out, Candy Jones was there and Ruth Carlson, and among the others, Millie could see the sleeve of a turquoise jumpsuit, peeking out from behind Mrs. Mason’s back. Women she had known since she was a newlywed, fresh from one county over and married to a man who had brought her to his farm and made her a farmwife and mother all those years ago.
“Hello,” Millie said. “It’s so good to see you all.”
With considerable effort, she threw her cardigan over her blood-stained shirt and tried to keep her old smile on as she walked toward the last rows of pews, reaching for each row end with her only arm. Maybe they wanted to throw a party for her. Perhaps they would raise some money in her honour, to help cover the cost of the prosthetic arm she’d ordered. Maybe it would be bionic and get her playing better than ever. She’d never be the concert pianist she’d secretly dreamed of becoming back in the day: she had known all along that there was little chance of making the stars line up. No, she’d contented herself with playing for her husband after dinner, a few old favourites they used to dance to, once the children were asleep.
“Welcome back, Millie,” Mrs. Mason said.
“Thank you, dear. It’s just lovely to be here again.”
“What in the Lord’s name are you doing back so soon?” Ruth Carlson said. “You should be home resting after such a trauma.” Ruth said “trauma” as if it rhymed with “Gramma.”
Millie laughed. “You’d think I would like the rest, wouldn’t you? But the truth is, I was so jazzed up about being out of the hospital that I couldn’t stay at home, especially on a Sunday.” Millie sat down, heavily, in the last pew. She was sweating, and her stomach felt a little off.
“But doesn’t it hurt?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“Not too bad,” Millie replied. “I might get those phantom pains down the road, they say, but right now it’s just a little achy.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m just so tickled that I can still play the organ.”
The women were silent for a moment. Then Candy spoke up.
“Millie,” she said. “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about.”
From inside her swimming head, Millie looked around at the faces of the United Church Women. None of the faces she had known fo
r all those years were looking her in the eyes now. Or was it eye—what was the expression again?
“Since you’ve had such a mishap,” Candy continued, “we think it might be best if you took a little rest from the playing.”
“You’ve had the job a long time,” Ruth piped in. “What is it, ten years now?”
That sounded about right. Millie had started playing the organ when June Johansson passed away ten years ago. But June had been playing it for more than twenty. Millie didn’t know why she should have to call it quits, especially since she thought she’d sounded better today than she had in years. If only her husband were here to hear it. But three years ago, after thirty-five years of marriage, mostly good, he’d had a heart attack and died on the way to hospital.
That was why she’d needed to learn how to use all that machinery in the barn, including the manure spreader, so she could help her son keep the farm going. And God, via Teddy, had given her a second chance, and although she couldn’t use a pitchfork like she used to—and thank the Lord she didn’t have to use one right now—one-armed or two, she was still the best organist at the First United Church. But these women, they were saying otherwise.
“It would give someone else a chance to play,” Candy said. “It’s only fair, we think, to let someone else have a go.”
Millie felt more weakness pass over her again, and she leaned her head against the end of the pew.
“You’re not well yet,” Mrs. Davidson said gently. “Why don’t you take some time off? A little R & R, you know. Let the young folks take on the burden.”
Millie looked at the group of women, who were beginning to blur into a quilt of colour, patches of pastel and primaries all together.
“It’s no burden,” she said, quietly.
Mrs. Mason muttered, “It is to the rest of us.”
Millie tried to focus on Jessie then, who was emerging from behind Mrs. Mason.
“Is that what you want?” she asked Jessie.
Jessie nodded, her chin held high. “I’ve wanted to play that organ since I was four years old. I’ve been practicing every day, and I don’t even need to look at the book for some of the hymns!”
As she spoke, Millie could hear Teddy’s truck dieseling around the corner on its way to pick her up. Relief flooded through her. Good old Teddy.
“Well, then,” Millie said, smiling faintly. “I’ll give it some thought.” There was no way she was going to give it up that easily, even if Jessie needed the job, as service to the Lord or to keep her from turning against her husband—a way to escape as she had, from the farm, if only for an hour every week.
Millie still needed the escape. She deserved it, didn’t she, after all she’d been through? Maybe she would take a poll of the members of the congregation, who’d seemed to enjoy her playing just as much as any other Sunday.
Yes! She would give them a little survey at the door, with boxes beside Jessie’s name and her name, somewhere for them to put their checkmarks. Wouldn’t it be fun to count up all those checkmarks? Or she could pull out the big guns. If she had to get Reverend Short involved, then that’s what she would do. Hadn’t he been supportive of her return? Wasn’t that approval in his glances all service long? Or was it something else? Did the old devil have a little crush on her? Was he over his wife leaving him for another man in another church in a faraway province? Was he ready to get back on the horse? He was a looker, or must’ve been, back in his youth.
Good Lord. Her, a minister’s wife! What would these ladies say to that?
“Thank you, Millie,” Candy said. “We knew you’d come around.”
“I’ll let you all know,” Millie said, faintly, and then stood up and started to walk slowly back down the aisle to the organ, keeping her eyes on the cross that hung behind the pulpit as a target.
“Teddy,” she heard Candy say when her son walked into the church in another beer shirt and cut-offs. “I understand you’re some kind of hero.”
“Nah,” he said. “I’m no hero. Youse all would have done what I did.”
Millie turned her head and waved at her son.
“I’ll just be two shakes, hon,” she said.
She looked back toward the front of the church, to get her attention back on track, but she couldn’t seem to focus on that big wooden cross. When her right foot hit the edge of the front pew it broke her momentum, but she toppled, falling onto the green carpet, and tried to stick out her missing arm to break her fall. Instead, the carpet met her face, and the stump hit the edge of the altar, and she was down. Down, down, down for another count. If only it were down she’d fallen into, instead of this cheap Berber!
What was that sound? It seemed to belong to a large bird, a kind of squawk, or cry, like from an angry peacock. Was that from her?
On the carpet of the First United, Millie listened as more birds came running down the aisle, chirping behind her son. She pictured their mouths popping open at the sight of her, splayed in front of them, bleeding like a stuck pig. She saw stars and waving colours and the lights moving every which way, and she saw how it was, this church, no more than another place for these women to hold court. She pictured Reverend Short, coming to scold these women for their behaviour, and helping her up; she saw herself as the lady of the church, presiding not only over the organ but over the manse and the first pew and the general gist of everything.
Then, she saw a white shadow, nearby. Was it the Holy Spirit, hovering, ready to take her if she wanted to go?
Was she ready? Was it her time?
When she opened her eyes, there was Teddy, taking off his shirt again, trying to stop the progress of her blood. What was it about her blood? It just seemed to want to escape.
But who was that behind him? Reverend Short? And what was he holding? It looked like a loaf of white bread, ready to be cut up for communion. Or was it a six-pack for Teddy, for all that he’d done?
Teddy should really come to church more often. Next week, she would ask him to stay for the service, to hear how much her playing had improved. And she would buy him a new shirt. I owe him that, at least, Millie thought, as she let her eyes fall shut.
“Millie,” Revered Short whispered, right into her ear. “Look what I have for you.”
It was all she could do to lift her eyelids, but there, cradled like a newborn in his arms, was her missing limb, with a face like baby Jesus, beaming his unearthly love at them all.
//// Sleeping with Kittens
Dear Maddie,
Merry Christmas! And happy 19th birthday. Isn’t it good to finally be a grown-up? Able to see the world as it really is? We made it. We’re not little kids anymore, lol!
How are you, my friend? Isn’t it fun to look back on our lives and see how far we’ve come? To track the changes, and monitor our growth? That’s one thing I’ve learned at school, among about a billion!!
I’m home for the holidays, and OMG I would LOVE to see you.
I’m sure you are learning so much too, in a totally different way from me. The real world, right? Sometimes the university feels like a whole other dimension (and I’m happy to be in it!), but you’re living life for real. How is that baby of yours? I bet she’s beautiful, just like you.
In psych class we’re learning about personalities and behaviours, patterns and traps, and once you get the lingo, so much of the past can be put into perspective. Every day, I say to myself, if everyone took Psych 100, there would be a lot more harmony in the world.
Please send me some pics! I would totally love to see her. I couldn’t find you on Facebook, though. Are you even on there? It’s a complete gong show some days, I know, but it’s a good way to keep those special people in our lives.
But anyway, back to what I’ve been doing. There is so much to tell! Oh Maddie, it’s so amazing. I totally get what’s happened in my life now. It
’s like I’ve been an uncharged cell phone for like, ever, and now, I’m finally plugged in. Like, you know how I used to be afraid of the dark, right? Well, it’s no wonder! They call it nyctophobia, and I’m sure half of the world has it, and it usually comes from the power of suggestion. Think about this:
In the great green room there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of—
That’s where the page break is in Goodnight Moon. Margaret Wise Brown wants you to imagine what might be in that garish bedroom before the page gets turned. What I want to know is who guesses a bowlful of mush? And what about the mouse? Do you want your baby girl to have rodents in her room? Or even worse, kittens? Have you ever tried to get to sleep with kittens in the room?
That old lady should get out of her rocking chair and put those two kittens outside instead of just whispering “hush.” Talk about setting a poor kid up for failure. And don’t get me started on the “Goodnight nobody” page. That emptiness is enough to make any child afraid to close their eyes.
You got a copy of this book for your shower, right? I think Maya gave it to you. Well, I’m not saying don’t read it to the baby, but you might want to put it away until she’s old enough to know better. Otherwise, it’ll just make you have to spend hours getting your kid to sleep, like my parents did.
I’m sure they would rather have been doing something else, like spending time on their marriage or something. It wasn’t always hunky-dory.
God. I am so sorry. You don’t need to hear about a not-perfect marriage when you don’t even have a daddy for your baby. How insensitive am I?
